


Our Decay

by bowblade



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29318043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowblade/pseuds/bowblade
Summary: You're falling apart, but Fray will be with you.
Relationships: Esteem/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Fray Myste & Warrior of Light, Fray Myste/Warrior of Light
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27





	Our Decay

**Author's Note:**

> a study of the wol throughout the dark knight quests up to level 50 and during heavensward - and a little bit after, as a bonus. wol is ambiguous and fray is referred to as they/them.
> 
> i really, really enjoyed the first step of the dark knight questline, and i'm excited for more of it!! (i'm still working through post-HW) sometimes perfect titles come to you and you have to work on fic to go with them, you know how it is.

"You're angry."

Are you?

It seems right, if Fray says so. You smile, and nod, and solve their problems – _save_ them from their damn problems, save their entire realm – and for what? To be caught up in a scheme of power. So many dead, because of you. When it should have been you. When there was no reason for it to be you other than that you were a convenient centrepiece. It isn't your fault, but it _is_. The Warrior of _Light_. Used.

You've been trying not to think about it.

Fray sighs. "I thought so," they say. "Your burdens make you sensitive." You wonder if that's it, then. That they're here to pick at scabs and reopen old wounds. It isn't going to make you stronger. It isn't going to _fix_ it. What's the point? You might as well take a leve where you don't have to _think_ , and you just have to do.

It _hurts_. It hurts so much you can barely stand it.

You shouldn't blame Fray, for pointing it out. If anything you should blame yourself for locking it away. But you _want_ to, and you grit your teeth, and you want to deny it and tell them they're _wrong_ , that you're not just some hapless kitten declawed.

The look is enough. There's a smile in Fray's voice, a thunderous delight. "Good. You _should_ be angry. They betrayed you. You don't need to serve them. You only need to serve yourself—"

It seems at odds with who you are. Your strength is something you've always given freely, something that defines, but it also doesn't feel like Fray is asking you to give that up. No. Only to be selective. To choose for the sake of choice. To _want_ to do the things you do because they _matter_ , not just because you can't say no.

If it makes you feel better.

Fray is watching you, pensive. You wonder what's next. There are probably more just causes to champion, more girls taken away for reasons much bigger than they are, or none at all. Mindless, meaningless things, like rocks to destroy. It wouldn't be the first or second time. 

Your darkside… you want to nurture it, and it will not be gentle. You remember, that your unresolved anger was the solution, the things you don't want to admit. Your pain, and your hurt. 

No Beasts. Just you. 

Fray's hand is held out to you. 

"There's another way," Fray promises. "If you want to learn."

You do.

\- - - -

There's blood on your hands and Fray asked you to put it there. Matted in your hair and dried above your mouth. The Peiste's kept coming. They wanted to stop you. They _wanted_ to live. They would have, if they hadn't met you.

There's slaughter at your feet, mixed with sand. It will be moons until it's washed away. Fray is watching you, as they always do. They wanted you to revel in it, in the _kill,_ and it's clear that you did, but as you breathe deeply, you wonder if it was too much.

"Does it matter?" Fray asks, interrupting your thoughts. "Who hasn't asked you to kill something for them?"

Fray is right, as they always are. You needed to be stronger. It starts with small things outside city walls. It ends with Primals, with weapons that have lain long buried. With fighting for your lives, and everyone offering theirs for yours.

They're waiting, in Ishgard. Those that made it out, that you managed to save. And they look upon you as though you have the answers, that you'll forge a path through _everything—_

Anything that tries to stop you. Anyone.

You think that you're ready for Communion, and Fray doesn't disappoint you.

\- - - -

_Serve save slave slay_

Where have you heard that before?

_Hear feel think_

Hydaelyn.

You aren't hers anymore: Midgardsormr saw to that. She beseeched you. Weak. You served her. Strong. You gave her everything, and she gave you what you are. Now it's gone, and you're empty. Unclaimed.

_Serve save slave slay_

It's a curse and a binding, and for all that Fray says you don't feel liberated.

The words pound in your head, weighing you down. You only feel heavier with how much you choose to carry, that you needn't. That you have to. That you must. If you don't fight for them, who will?

They'll see. They'll see what they've made you into.

You bathe the Amalj'aa in flame, and you don't clean your sword.

\- - - -

It's cold in the Brume but Fray's stare is colder.

It's a knife in your ribs when they say they're disappointed, and you clench your fists, fury white hot and anger on the tip of your tongue.

How dare they.

You've done everything Fray has asked you to. You've grown stronger. The heft of the broadsword barely registers to you now. You've protected the weak. Given them what they want, all of them. How many Peistes? How many Primals? How many _more?_

And it's still not enough?

You're perfectly still. You've been trying so hard and you're still falling apart.

Fray's eyes narrow. You feel like there's something you're missing, that you don't understand. They said they'd help you. They said they'd make it _stop_.

Plate touches your face. Fray's. It's far more chilling than the night as the backs of their knuckles rest against your cheek. It's the only sympathy you've ever received, whether you want it or not.

"You're fickle," Fray says. "We can't continue on like this, and what did you do? You _accepted_ it. What happened. Everything. That they're going to keep asking and asking and asking…"

They shake their head with a sigh, and you still don't understand.

You won't. "If you insist, so be it. Go on, then. Back to your manor, where they _need_ you."

Fray's eyes pierce through you. Even now, you still can't stand up for yourself.

The touch drops away, and you feel alone.

\- - - -

There's blood in his lungs and a hole in his chest and he did it for you.

Haurchefant smiles as you catch him. He did his duty. He saved you. You're the Warrior of Light, the hope for his people. You're counting corpses for the lichyard. You're watching the light leave the Sultana's eyes as her throat closes. You say nothing as the Scions stay behind one by one, entrusting you with seeing Minfilia to safety. 

She decides she won't allow anyone else to die for her. 

He dies in your arms. It's not coming off. There's blood on your hands and his father's despair rings in your ears. It's not coming off. No matter how much you scrub it will _never_ come off.

You're outside. You think you can hear one of the guards asking where you're going. To the Brume. To Fray. _Serve save slave slay._ Who's going to cheer for you now? Who's going to tell you not to lose heart? There must be some wrongdoing in this godsforsaken city, someone who will _pay_ —

_Slay slay slay slay_

"You're here."

_Fray._

You're shaking. Your body ripples, _seethes_ with a thousand quakes, the anguish and the anger you so efficiently smothered very much alive. You need—

You look at Fray. Pleading.

They clearly did not expect you for some time. For once they're at a loss for words, surprised at the _ferocity_ of it, the depths you've unwittingly achieved.

"You _insisted_ ," they say quietly, as if that explains everything. "You insisted and then I—"

Couldn't protect you. Couldn't _save_ you.

_Stop._

Nobody else. Not one more.

"I could comfort you, but… that's not what you want, is it?"

There's an edge to Fray's words, and their eyes are redder still, redder than the blood on your hands you cannot see. This city won't suffice. There's only one place for someone as desolate as you, in the cold, barren emptiness beyond Ishgard's walls.

You don't need Communion. Not tonight. Together you leave the city, and the cold seeps beneath your fingers, your very marrow. Perhaps you'll die. You probably won't. It takes more than that to kill you.

And your friends aren't here, are they?

The mountains of Coerthas howl at your coming and nothing that crosses your path in the wastes survives.

\- - - -

You make it out to Moraby.

There's not much left to teach you. Not much time. Soon you'll go to Azys Lla and face yet another destiny, one that shouldn't have to be yours. You might not be back this way anytime soon, if at all.

There's salt in the wind. Doesn't taste like it. From the moment you arrive Fray seems less. Reticent. Wary of you, like at any moment you might push them into the sea.

You can't figure it out. The drydocks seem more about _Fray_ than about you. You want to tell them you won't, would never – why would you, when they're the only one who understands? – but then there's people begging your aid and seeker of pain that you are you give it.

You never stop. You never learn.

Too coward to watch, too brazen to think twice about pushing their troubles unto you. The Qiqirn don't make good sport. They're numerous but they're easy, like _real_ rats—

The beach is littered with your passage. You realise you took no care, but then again, if the merchant _cared_ you wouldn't be in this situation to begin with.

Fray says nothing as you clean yourself up. They're less rattled in the crystal sands, but their movements are lethargic, tired. You wonder if it was their journey out. If you offer help you know they'll just refuse it, never about _them_ , always about you.

You reposition your armour, hoist your gear; Fray always seems bemused at how much you cart around. Your bow clatters to the ground, but Fray retrieves it before you can, running steel fingers against familiar carving, along twine.

"Different," they say. "Better made. Nothing like what they'd suit a new adventurer with, not really expecting them to come back…"

They trail off. It's a cruel accusation, but you can't deny it. There were so many trying to make a name for themselves when you began, falling through the cracks. Bodies left with no one to bury them. You were one of the lucky ones, doomed to continue.

Fray sighs."You've forgotten," they say, returning the weapon to you. "You need to remember. When you first picked up that bow… who did you serve?"

You think.

Eorzea. Scions. Hydaelyn. Adventurer's guild. Nobody.

You shake your head and Fray is unsatisfied, frustrated by your wilful ignorance.

"That first night you slept under the stars, and you doubted. But you knew. You knew you did this for yourself. Back then you could have walked whenever you liked, took whatever job no one else would, and it was yours. And you served—"

Fray trails off. They might have been about to tell you to figure it out for yourself, if not for the fact they're doubled over, breaths ragged and deep. Tired. Through. Not much time.

"I hate it here," Fray mutters, under their breath. 

\- - - -

Leave this realm behind and we can try again.

It's not going to stop.

They're just going to keep taking.

You know that, don't you?

_Serve save slave slay_

It doesn't matter, not anymore.

Fray will set us free.

\- - - -

They don't wait for your answer.

No. You _did_ answer. You weren't where you promised. They needed you and you left them behind to help someone else begging the Warrior of Light's assistance, again. _Again_. You really don't ever learn.

You weren't planning on surrendering your blade – you're still a ward, and no one would dare try if you refused – but Fray is less reasonable. Lashing out at the prospect of Ul Dah repeating, at your need to please, that you _invite_ suffering. No more people no more serving. No more serving just you and me.

The missing piece to everything, to all that you never quite understood. Your missing piece.

You finally see. You finally understand.

It's not Fray looking back at you. 'Fray' crumbles to the ground, whatever kept them finally spent, and you know it. It's impossible not to know yourself.

They're angry, beyond compromise. They're _seething_ , just as you were on the night after the Vault, when all you wanted was your justice.

"Tell me, _Warrior of Light_. Who's going to save you? Who's going to save you from yourself?"

Esteem has hold of your jaw. It's the first time they've dared since that night in the Brume, their fingers burning against snowbitten skin.

You're afraid.

Esteem's features soften. "It's not _you_ that you need to be worrying about," they say, bitter that you're still thinking the worst of them, like when you threw them away. "Don't you see? It's always been for you. Everything. You never would help yourself. And you still—won't admit it, will you?"

Their hand drops, to the pommel of your sword, over yours.

"You love this." Their eyes are blackened red. "You love me."

Esteem's words are double edged, and they know it.

Imagine falling for a part of yourself.

Narcissist.

Their laugh is hollow. "Look at you! You can't even deny it!" Their words ring in your ears, everything you've ever done at their behest. That they never asked more of you than what you were willing to give, that they saw your pain and your reverent desire to continue and gave it purpose, even if they didn't agree.

And they still don't. They're out of time. You won't leave Eorzea, won't abandon those who need you, the strong and the weak alike, and they won't allow you to stay. 

Esteem scoffs. You're _still_ being stubborn. "It would be so much _easier_ if you let me. But the good Warrior won't so easily relinquish themselves, will they?"

You stand. Placing yourself between your wilted soul and those you've chosen to protect.

No. You won't.

You fight. You're losing. You're winning. You look heretical, fighting nothing at all but the decay in your heart.

Ours.

Why do you stay?

Because it's what you desire.

_Why?_

Because from now on it's a choice.

Eventually it ends. It doesn't feel like a victory, not when you're looking at yourself, bruised and defeated. You don't feel better, but you do feel that your answer has reached them. It took so much from you. You took so much from _yourself_. It took all this for you to hear it, to know the voice was them. You.

They think you're going to quiet them again, cast them away.

You smile, offering Esteem your hand.

No.

You're not.

\- - - -

Dawn rises over the Dravanian Forelands, and the distant whir of the Illuminati's tools grates your ears.

But your quarrel isn't with the gobbiefolk, or even the fauna. You're just here for a levemente. Something simple, as you wished to be alone. Something to do, to take your mind off that which you were meant to protect.

And you failed. Minfilia isn't coming back. The rest of the returned Scions might cling to some fragile belief, a smallest hope, but you know how this goes. Hydaelyn has blessed her, as she has so many others. As Ysayle was. As Krile is. 

And you. Warrior of Light.

Once the Mother Crystal decides upon your role, you might as well be cursed with it.

Your marks are waiting. 

You exhale, out through your mouth. Slower, slower…

Today isn't the day for surrender. But there's only one person who knows your heart, and what you need.

You hear movement at your shoulder, plate clad fingers dancing across the hilt of your blade, and yours.

"Now then," says Fray. "Shall we?"


End file.
